


sinking to the bottom

by ninata



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Drabbles, Established Relationship, M/M, Poetry, Post-Game, endgame spoilers, most of the time at least, pre-game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-02-05 09:03:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12791253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninata/pseuds/ninata
Summary: An assortment of one shots and poetry regarding pre-game Saihara and Ouma. Ratings will hover around T-M, smut will be posted separately probably. Involves heavy spoilers, headcanon, and a consensual unhealthy dynamic. Not all the same timeline/continuations of each other. Beginning notes will have warnings.





	1. downward spiral

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't posted something chaptered in ages so please forgive me if this is a preface to the entire thing and not just this chapter?  
> i'll be fiddling with formatting. right now i'm gonna do a big dump of stuff i haven't posted soooo heh heh heh.  
> this chapter (please be the chapter i'm talking about) 'downward spiral' includes warnings forrr  
> -blood, suicide pacts, self harm, child abuse, pain play

The pain is blinding. The pain is like haze, obscuring his vision, coiling around his body and tightening around his hip.  _ It'll be secret, here.  _ A jagged line, almost a crescent, almost a check mark. Matching with Saihara's, something for the two of them.

"I-It's kind of romantic, isn't it?" Saihara's face is paler than usual, his breaths heavy and labored past his lips, his chin wet with saliva. "Look. It's the same red."

Sitting on his bathroom tile, a bloody box cutter sitting between them. Kokichi isn't sure what to say for a solid few minutes, but finally he speaks.

"Do you think we'll...get sick?"

"I hope so…" Saihara rocks back and forth, pressing gauze against the cut. "Wouldn't that be funny?"

It would, but it'd also be troublesome. Kokichi leans against the sink's cabinets, his teeth peeling away at the layers of skin on his lip.

"They're pretty deep," Saihara sounds like he's speaking from the other room, "So I think they'll scar properly. Can I see yours again?"

Kokichi moves the gauze. The smile that cracks against Saihara's face is something scary, something beautiful. It isn't right for someone to look that ecstatic at a gash in someone's hip, but Kokichi can understand him. He likes that part of him. Abandoning common sense and all. He wishes he wasn't so tethered.

"If we press them together," Kokichi is almost afraid to say, "We'll almost  _ definitely  _ get some kind of disease, right…?"

"Yeah…" Saihara wipes at his lips.

It isn't spoken, but they're both thinking the same thing. Kokichi has trouble getting from his seat on the floor to his knees, but he manages to get on top of Saihara, straddling his legs. The expanse of skin between the rolled down hem of his underwear and his crumpled shirt is too enticing. It's natural how it happens, as they awkwardly fumble against each other to angle their bodies so the cuts match up. How their mouths meet, how their tongues meet, how a gesture they've repeated over and over so many times still feels just as overwhelming as the first. It's like they're tumbling further down, a rat king of bloodied limbs, tangled and twisted around each other in a vice.

Kokichi hates this life he's being forced to live. He hates getting up in the mornings and never having breakfast, he hates taking the train into school. He hates sitting through long lectures and answering questions with a trembling voice, he hates flinching when the gym teacher yells at him, hates coming home to expired food in the fridge and his parents fighting and someone grabbing his hair and hitting him, always hitting him, hitting him across the face so hard his ears ring.

But the further they sink down together, the safer he feels. The lower Saihara's hand rests on his body, pulling him closer, the deeper the cut, it makes every second of suffering worthwhile. He'll endure anything as long as they can hurt together like this.

It's almost like they're one person, chests flush, heat mingling. He likes that. Kokichi likes the idea that they're similar, even if they're so different. Even if they aren't one in the same, if their bodies are so tightly wound, it's comforting. He wants to believe even a pitiful, useless person like him can find solace in someone else. That even though he's been pushed past the point of apathy, that even though he can't manage to even cry some nights, that someone can see him and feel some sort of likeness.

Their wounds are forgotten. Kokichi leans all his weight against him, curls his tongue in Saihara's mouth, breathes his breath.  _ No one in the world other than Saihara-kun could understand this feeling,  _ he thinks, his hands moving back through Saihara's hair.  _ No one else. No one.  _ His hips move without a thought, and Saihara pulls him closer still. Blood's soaking their clothing, joining into a singular crimson puddle.

"We shouldn't," Saihara gasps, his words caught on Kokichi's lips. "W-We need to clean ourselves up."

Kokichi doesn't want to, having gotten himself all excited at this point, but he knows Saihara's right. Saihara leans back, grasping blindly for the first aid kit they brought in with them.

Gauze is pressed hard against the cut 'til it stops bleeding, then anchored in place with band-aids.

Soon enough, Kokichi is sitting on the floor of Saihara's small laundry room, wearing one of his shirts. The smell of hydrogen peroxide lingers at his palms, having scrubbed his clothing clean. Everything's in the wash. He doesn't feel like standing up yet, watching Saihara move as he shuffles through the kitchen instead.

Kokichi thinks of his touch, still blistered in his body. He'd take Saihara's hands over cigarette butts any day. He'd take his anger and hatred over anyone else's. He'd take his suffocating love over anything.

"Are you doing okay?" Saihara asks. Kokichi lifts his head, shifting a bit.

"...Yeah. I'm fine."

"Do you want me to make some food?"

Kokichi nods, because saying it feels too selfish. He manages to get to his feet, staggering over to him, wincing every time his leg strains his hip.

"...Ouma-kun?"

Kokichi thinks of that oneness he felt earlier. He looks at Saihara. Maybe Saihara's innocent, in a sense. He's given up like Kokichi has, but he still seems so full of life. He still gets angry, he still complains. He may love death more than Kokichi does, but maybe those strong feelings are what make him himself.

Kokichi loves that, he thinks. Maybe if they were one, they'd be one complete person.

He gets on his tiptoes, pressing a short kiss to his jaw. Heads over to the kitchen table, sits down.

"Saihara-kun...you really meant it when you said you'd kill me, right?"

Saihara's silent. He looks thoughtful. Kokichi's gaze shifts to the table in front of him.

"...Yeah. I did."

He swallows. "I'm glad."

"I'll...I'll die right after you." Saihara's voice catches again. "So, wait for me then, okay?"

Kokichi smiles.

"Mm. I'd wait forever for you, Saihara-kun!"


	2. knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a concrete poem. its about ...y'know. Cutting someone open with their permission. you can't phrase that eloquently.

1

cut,

shallow,

into what

is paper thin,

glasslike in its

nature, fragile,

and all too easy

to cut in the first

place. what bursts

forth is beautiful,

to the person who

holds the knife in

his hand, a bouquet

of red roses, what

blossoms from the

warm flesh, a thing

somewhat like a

promise, between

two people, beneath

him a shudder of a

breath, a gasp as

thin fingers press

gauze to the cut.

cleaned,

wrapped,

it's done.

2 smiles

reflect 2

strange

people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you should've seen my classmates reactions to this one. never have i wanted to die more in a moment


	3. a few poems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some short poems. ouma pov. some ingame-y feelings mixed with pregame-y nonsense. violence/death warnings

_ dreaming of death in the subway _

 

cloudy evenings,

the hustle of the crowds in

the train station.

the train is always on time.

people check

their phones for their schedules.

nobody looks

at each other as they walk.

i dream of

the train derailing, sparks flying,

crushing us all

flat into piles of guts and gore.

i dream of

a world where you and i are one,

the same person,

with four arms and four legs

and two hearts.

when i finally board the train,

i think of you.

smiles smooth like red wine,

sweet and rotten.

i hope on the day we both die

the train comes late

and the subway station collapses

and disaster spreads

through the entire city we live in.

i hope everyone

is turned inside out and bursts.

i hope we burn to death. 

* * *

 

_ i know _

 

i know,

you are different from i am.

i know,

that we won't ever grow old.

i know,

that nothing can go right.

i know,

that your love for me is a lie.

i know,

i've hurt everyone i care for.

i know,

no one will ever forgive me.

i know,

i'm nothing to this big world.

i know,

it will keep turning without me.

i know,

my hand will not reach yours.

i know,

so i keep it locked inside me.

i will not tell you these things.

i will not burden you with this.

i will burn these bridges we built.

i will die, alone, without you.

* * *

_ forget me not _

 

you promised me that you'd always love me,

and i believed you.

you promised we'd die hand in hand,

and i believed you.

you promised you'd never forget me,

and i believed you.

you don't look me in the eye.

what of our promise?

your hand is so far from mine.

what of our promise?

you no longer remember my name,

my face, my voice,

the things we did, the places we went,

the things we shared, the blood we shed,

every cut, every scar, every kiss,

you forgot it at all.

but what of our promise?

* * *

_ wilting  
_

 

a bouquet of flowers,

all wilting and dying

in a glass vase with 

dirty brown water.

you said you were glad

that it was me that had died.

you said you were happy.


	4. together, with each other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confession should be something beautiful. Something tender, something innocent and pure.  
> Kokichi is sure he's past those kinds of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (banging fists on table) suicide pact. suicide pact. sorry, i'm ruining the mood. (i know i've written their first kiss in another fic, but guess what! nothing in life matters and i hate continuity.)

"I don't...want to go back home."

It's a selfish thought, but one that's been on Kokichi's mind regardless. Hanging around him like crows by a dumpster, picking, picking, picking. He hates being selfish, he hates being a brat. He knows it's wrong, but it's stuck with him too long.

So he says it. He says it while he wrings his hands, twisting them around each other like he's trying to rub them clean.

"Huh? It's not that late...the trains should still be running." Saihara's finishing putting plates in the dishwasher, his head tilted just so. With his hat off, he looks a lot more casual. Something about that is deeply satisfying, but he isn't thinking about that right now.

"No, I mean, uh...in general. I don't want to...leave."

In his seat at Saihara's kitchen table, he stares at his lap, at the wrinkles in his pants. They're incredibly interesting. He can't think of anything but folds in fabric, nothing at all about the situation he's created.

"I-Is that so…?" Saihara's voice wavers. "I...I don't want you to leave, either."

"Do you mean that?" He kneads his fingers. Kokichi couldn't look up if he wanted to. "I hate...I hate to impose, I just…"

"Ouma-kun…"

The voice is a lot closer. He flinches a little, hopes Saihara doesn't notice. Being easy to startle is embarrassing, the implications too telling.

"I like having you with me. I-I like...being near you, and…"

Something in Kokichi's heart turns itself over. He swallows. His throat is suddenly dry. He keeps his gaze fixed on his knees.

"If you want to stay, t-then...that's…"

Suffocating. His face feels hot. "That's what?"

"That's what I'd like."

Like, like, like. Saihara keeps using that word. Kokichi can guess why, and that makes him giddy. He wants to look up at him, but he's not sure he can. "I'd like it too," He blurts out, eager to reciprocate the implication. "I like being here too…!"

He fidgets, his hands prodding at each other in rhythmic patterns. His index finger taps his thumb, then his middle, ring, pinky, back to the index.

Saihara laughs.

An ugly kind of laugh, the kind you can't control. Kokichi flinches again. He immediately assumes he was tricked, humiliated, Saihara speaks. "Wonderful…! That's wonderful! Y-You really feel the same? Really?"

He watches as Saihara's hands dart into his field of vision, taking his own. His heart stops in his throat.

"Hey, Ouma-kun. You...you mean it, right? You like being around me? You don't hate me? You don't think I'm...weird?"

He glances at Saihara's gleeful expression. He does think Saihara's weird, but he likes that. He likes how he gets… After all, if he had the energy left to be scared, he wouldn't have met Saihara in the first place. So he nods. 

"Would you really stay with me? You'd take me over your own parents?"

His reaction is instantaneous. "I hate them. Of course I would. I hate my parents, but...Saihara-kun is...a person who makes me happy, so...I'd like to—"

"Ouma-kun, I like you."

The statement is so blunt it throws him for a loop. Here he thought they were going to skirt around that at least a little longer, but Saihara was nothing if not unpredictable. Kokichi's expression is undoubtedly telling, and he wishes he could rip his face off.

"Ouma-kun...I really, really like you. You know that, right? You've noticed. You've seen, right? How much I like you. And you know I always want to be with you, right?"

He's starting to feel a sense of danger. He ignores it. "Y-Yeah, uh…"

"Nobody else looks at me like you do. Nobody talks to me, either. You know, in this whole world," He squeezes Kokichi's hands, "You're the only person who's been so kind to me. You know, you know, aha, ahaha, heh," A giggle rises out of his throat. "I thought when we'd met, you'd see how disgusting I was and stay away. I thought you'd realize the promises you made were with an ugly, worthless person, and you'd take them back."

Their meeting was online, through a back-alley forum where people who wanted to kill someone and people who wanted to die connected. It was hard not to grow attached to the person who described so lovingly how he'd eviscerate him, not to mention getting that kind of attention from another boy…

How was he not supposed to fall for Saihara? How was he supposed to keep himself from wanting him, wanting to be cleaved into pieces and have the world painted red with his blood?

How was he supposed to not take pictures on his phone of him when Saihara wasn't looking? How was he supposed to keep himself from snatching things like toothbrushes and hairbrushes and used tissues from his apartment? How could he control himself? How could he ever  _ dream  _ of controlling himself around Saihara?

No, this wasn't a one way street. He swallows heavily, feeling something bob in his throat as he does.

"I-I know we, we never talk about that kind of thing in person," Saihara's voice is soft, tender. It melts, seeping through Kokichi's skin. "But if we like each other, it's clear, right? W-We have to die together, right?"

For the first time since the conversation started, Kokichi can look up at him. Wondrously gazing, Saihara's face is twisted into a smile, his cheeks red, is he drooling? "Saihara-kun…"

"I want to die with you, Ouma-kun. I-I do…! I know...e-even with how close we've gotten, we're both still miserable, right? You understand. Even if it's happy when we're together, everything else is so  _ miserable _ that you can't wait to die, right?"

Kokichi nods.

"Then you understand...people like us, we never could live. Society, and, and our parents, and our classmates, they all hate people like us. So we have to show them, and, a-and we can…"

"We can die, right…? You and I…" Kokichi's tone is uneasy— not because of what he's saying, but because he's still afraid Saihara's joking. That they're not truly thinking the same thing. "We can...nobody can hurt us if we…" Swallow. "If we die, nobody can touch us anymore. If we die, nobody can hurt us. No matter what they think or say, it doesn't matter if we're dead…"

Staring at him, he knows the reason why he lived this long. He knew it was to meet Saihara, a person who saw the worst parts of him and still smiled. A person who took him back to his apartment to cook him meals, who went with him to stores and restaurants he was too afraid to go into alone. Someone who actually made him look forward to weekends, to the vibration of his phone in his pocket. A miserable person, a person with no reason to keep living, a person with eyes so vibrant and devoid of life all the same. 

"T-That's right!" Saihara's grip on his hands tightens. "You really do understand…! W-We really are alike, you and I! Ouma-kun...I'll make it beautiful, okay? I'll make it so amazing. Everyone will see our bodies and see a masterpiece. Nobody will ever forget it, not ever, w-we'll die so beautifully—"

Kokichi isn't sure what possesses him. He isn't sure what drives his body to do it. Maybe he still wants to confirm in his head that it isn't a lie, or maybe hearing all of this sparked something in his heart. All these promises of grandeur, of a death together, that Saihara looks at Kokichi the same way he does to him, it's all swirling in his head. He can't hold back, he can't prevent himself from leaning in and pressing his lips to Saihara's.

Bursts of fire in his chest, the pain is unimaginable. Maybe a different man wouldn't be in such terrible agony getting to kiss the person they liked, but a masochist is a masochist. He revels in the feeling wracking his body, Saihara's mouth against his. He wants more, wants everything, wants to tear out Saihara's innards and breathe his blood, wants to feel every inch of him, wants to hold him and be held and be held underwater, drowning, he can't breathe like this. When he pulls away, he realizes he's crying, and he hastily withdraws a hand to swipe at his eyes.

He's afraid to look at Saihara, but he manages to catch a glimpse of him— the expression on his face echoes what he feels.

"Saihara-kun, I...I want you to…" He wishes his voice didn't sound so pathetic. "I want you to hurt me. Only you. Everyone else always hurts me...but with you it's different. I want you to be the one to...t-to take my life...i-if that's okay…"

Saying it aloud is both cathartic and horrible, waves of relief and anxiety coming over him, his heartbeat controls the tide at such a speed that he feels his body rock.

Saihara doesn't respond right away. That scares him. Did he misunderstand? He's worrying again, but Saihara leans in close.

"I'd do anything. I'd do anything you asked. You know that, right? I-I'll make sure...I'll make sure everyone pays for what they did to you. To us…"

Kokichi realizes all too late that their hands are still clutching each other, but he wouldn't dare pull them away. If he could get away with it, he'd always be like this-- close, contact of skin.

"I'll make everyone pay," Saihara repeats. He trails off in a hush, and Kokichi's eyes are caught by his. Golden, entrancing eyes, eyes all too beautiful. He wishes he could pry them out of their sockets and keep them by his bed.

Another kiss, slower this time.

He wishes he had told him sooner.


	5. two(2) poems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two short poems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poems i wrote about pregame saihara. saihara in general? hes a self masturbatory bitch in my eyes. warnings for allusions to self harm

_ ugly _

 

bloody kisses,

bullet misses,

knife can cut but it won't hurt.

you are broken,

you are needy,

you're barren and devoid of worth.

always laughing,

crying, spitting,

snotting, bleeding,

drooling, seething,

you are ugly, you are breathing.

you are hated. your heart is beating.

* * *

 

_ pie _

 

why are you hateful? why do you hate?

why do you screw up and act like it's fate?

why are you rotten? rot to the core?

why love to suffer and always want more?

why are you angry? envy so green?

why do you wish so badly to be mean?

why do you want this whole world to burn down?

why do you think that there's nothing around?

why do you stick your dirty fingers into

the pie, hot filling around your nails, pulling

everything apart until you've ruined the meal?

why do you live a life where you aren't real?


	6. winter is grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ouma gets to use a kotatsu for the first time at Saihara's apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for uh, graphic violent fantasies, brief allusions to child abuse. lots of...possessiveness. i owe a line of this to my poetry professor haha

The winter came all at once, temperatures dropping at a pace almost too quick to keep up with. Shuuichi wasn't a fan of the cold, but he never put his winter clothes away, so he was relatively prepared.

He was also lucky that his parents had bought him a kotatsu as a housewarming gift back when he first moved in. For all their flaws, they did have money. Though his was small, it was warm, and that was what mattered. He didn't need to worry about central heating for the cold days to come.

"What? Really?" Ouma had said, his bright eyes peeking out from behind his scarf, pulled up to his nose. He was a little hard to hear— Shuuichi supposed that it was called a muffler for a reason. "You have a real kotatsu?"

Shuuichi nodded. They were on their way back from the train station, preparing for a weekend all to themselves at his apartment.

"I've always wanted to sit at a kotatsu…" Ouma looked back down, fiddling with his sleeves. Their shoes scuffed against the pavement, cold hands longing for each other, stuffed into their pockets.

"You've never had one?"

Ouma shook his head. "My parents think the cold makes you more productive, so…"

Shuuichi clicked his tongue. It wasn't his business, but he couldn't help but loathe the people who Ouma called his parents. "Well, I set mine up last night. We can use it today, if you’d like…”

Ouma looked at him for a moment, then away. Shuuichi caught a hint of red in his cheeks, and wondered if it was from more than the cold. His heart twisted in on itself in his chest. He looked away too.

“I...think I’d like that.”

They reached Shuuichi’s apartment building without much further conversation. No mail today. Unlocking his door, he pulled it open.

The room was only a fraction warmer. His studio apartment was just as empty as always, his futon actually put away for once. Normally he just left it folded, but he was expecting company today. He took off his jacket and shoes, shivering, and headed to the kotatsu.

He didn’t have a kitchen table— didn’t feel he needed one, living alone. He had his coffee table, and that was that— but in the winters, he turned the heater underneath on and put on the heavy blanket.

Ouma was hesitating in the doorway, setting his school bag near his shoes.

“Um…”

“It’s okay, Ouma-kun. Come over.”

Ouma shifted on his feet, then scurried over, cautiously lifting up the blanket and tucking his legs under it. Shuuichi flipped on the heat, settling a bit.

“...Ah! Do you want me to make tea?”

“T-Tea? That...um, but if you’re already comfortable, I…”

“It’s fine, I like making Ouma-kun tea.” Shuuichi got to his feet. Ouma wasn’t a big tea drinker, but Shuuichi was a bit of a fanatic. He liked to think it was rubbing off on him. “What kind would you like?”

“I guess...something sweet?”

Shuuichi thought for a moment. “Oh, I’ve got it. Give me a bit.”

His kitchen was small, but well-used. After realizing he couldn’t (and, in fact, didn’t want to) survive on reheated Family Mart meals for the rest of his life, he took up cooking. Recipe books lined one of his cabinets, his laptop frequently taking a place on his counter as he mimicked chefs in tutorials. Failures eventually turned to successes; meals became something of an art for him. The kitchen was his studio, a hobby he’s sure his parents wouldn’t approve of if he bothered telling them. He longed to create more and more beautiful things; he had recently started to bake more often, and with pride he made things that genuinely tasted good.

He took his teapot out of the cabinet on his far right. Filled it with tap water. Onto the stove it went, the white circle against the black top filling with a dull red light.

If he was to do something, he would do it the most difficult and fantastical way. He would make it beautiful. Cooking helped him entertain those feelings. He thought of himself as an elitist, and liked that.

He never thought he’d have someone to show that part of himself to.

That thought came suddenly, and he snapped back to reality. He looked over at Ouma, who was slowly receding under the blanket. His mind immediately conjured up a comfortable looking rabbit.

Somebody to cook meals for, someone to bake cookies for and send him home with. Someone to explain the proper way to brew white teas, someone who he linked youtube videos over LINE to, someone who watched baking shows with him...

Something inside him trembled. What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to think? What gripped him was something saccharine, something that oozed all sorts of hideous wanting sludge. To have someone all to himself, someone who never looked at him strangely or got sick of listening to him talk…

Someone who never acted like he was sick with something contagious.

Someone who wanted to be sick together.

The water was boiling, his blood simmering. He took it off the heat and shut off his stove. He grabbed a pot holder and took it with him to the kotatsu, setting it down.

“Let me get the tea.”

The jar was with all the rest of his tea leaves. Rose hip in a glass jar, a soft pink label and a rose superimposed behind the text. He brought it with his teaspoon and strainer, heaping a generous portion into the mesh.

“...Saihara-kun, this is wonderful…”

Ouma was clearly comfortable now, his small frame now completely covered. Shuuichi's heart took a dive into his stomach, and he had to direct his attention back to the tea to get a hold of himself. Ouma was arguably the most charming human being on the planet.

"The tea has to brew for a while, so…"

"Um, Saihara-kun?" Shuuichi's gaze flickered over to him, his tongue darting out over his lips. "Would you...sit next to me?"

"Eh? Next to you?" Shuuichi's heart clenched. He blinked a few times, his heartbeat pervading his senses, blocking everything else out. The only other thing he could register was Ouma, pink-faced, waiting for a response. Ouma and the painful thump of the stupid thing that kept him alive. Ouma. "I...I'd love to."

A smile cracked against Ouma's face, and Shuuichi almost toppled over at the sight of it. Why did it make him feel this way? He walked on his knees, scooting next to him. Ouma’s head rested on his shoulder, a gesture that shot a thrill through his body.

This was it— this kind of casual affection, this was what he desired. A terrifying, starved love, a sensation that almost beat out how badly he loved death. Ravenous, maw dripping with drool, a hair away from sinking its fangs into Ouma and tearing him apart.

His hand rested on Ouma’s elbow, the one furthest from himself. The tea was steeping, and Shuuichi found he, too, was growing saturated with that sickeningly sweet feeling. To dig his fists into him and rip him to shreds, to close his hands around his throat and wring out the life in him. To brush those flicky locks out of his face, to kiss his cheeks and nose, to promise his life away over and over until he cut the two of them open and splayed their guts all over Tokyo Station’s floors…

“Ouma-kun...I-I...I’m happy you’re here.”

Irises— how funny, the flowers were purple too. Carefully sliding til they clicked, eyes meeting, flowers steeping in hot water. The tea wasn’t done yet. They looked at each other like they could never be sick of it. Like they’d let that sit until the leaves and petals burned and the tea became a bitter, disgusting red. He could pluck those irises and make tea with them.

Ouma’s hand took his and brought it to his cheek, a timid turn of his lips. “I’m happy too.” Ouma swallowed, and Shuuichi felt it. “Can we stay...like this? For a bit longer?”

Shuuichi nodded. His thumb ran against the flesh of Ouma's face, careful.

The winter was cold, all too fast, all too quickly. Shuuichi could stay in this warmth forever, even into the summer. No matter the weather, no matter what was thrown at him, he'd want this.

Would Ouma?

The seasons would change. Would Ouma change, too? Would he learn to hate him? Would he grow annoyed, or realize just how disgusting Shuuichi was? Would he look at him with contempt? Would he stop replying to his text messages, stop coming over on the weekends?

Everything was dying, and Shuuichi longed to join them. To carve open the world and pull out its entrails, to split Mother Earth open herself. To bleed everything out, to bring them all out and beat them, to lovingly drain them and tan them and bleach their bones.

The skies were grey. Shuuichi was grey, too.

But Ouma wasn’t. 

He'd never let Ouma leave. He couldn't. If Ouma left, it'd be worse than dying. It was a fate that terrified him.

He would never let him go.

He'd die before he'd let him go.

He'd kill him before he'd let him go.


	7. poems on looking back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two poems about an extrapolated childhood for ouma, and one on saihara looking back on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a big warning for child abuse really. not much else.

_branded_

 

ever since i was little,

i imagined an invisible mark on my forehead.

to a young mind confused by hatred,

by the way children pick out the weak

and rip them limb from limb,

i thought maybe there was a mark

or a brand that made them hate me.

i’d scrub at my face,

but still, they’d laugh at me.

they’d only come close to push me around. 

they stayed away like i was sick.

like i was contagious.

nowadays, i think maybe they were right.

maybe kids know more than we do.

maybe they can sniff out a rotten egg.

maybe they’re right to hate me.

maybe i can’t be loved.

 

-

_mother_

 

my mother always told me,

ever since i was little,

that life was not fair.

if i didn't get dinner that night,

or breakfast in the morning,

that was life. i didn’t get

the luxury to complain.

my mother told me many times,

masked by cigarette smoke,

that she never wanted

a second child to be born.

she wanted me to miscarry

the entire time she carried me.

i found i wished that she had, too.

my mother said to me once,

that i needed to forgive her.

that enough time had passed.

i couldn’t stay mad forever,

and to let things go.

i was an ungrateful brat.

people had it worse than me.

i remember this, cold metal

bracing my back, blood

pooling around me like wings. 

i want to fly from here.

i want to drown in this.

i won’t be here much longer. 

would she be proud?

i hope not.

i hope she hears i died

and gets hit by a car right after.

i hope her blood stinks.

i hope the rats lick it up

and shit it back out. 

i hope no one cares,

like they don’t care about me. 

* * *

 

_ you were beautiful _

 

you were beautiful when you were young,

lilac buds dainty and fragile,

caterpillars kissing the leaves 

the sun kissing your cheeks.

in this photograph, your knees are covered

in hello kitty bandaids and scrapes,

but your smile is so big.

it fits your face so perfectly.

the older you get, the less you smile.

the photographs lessen in number

as your parents decide 

they do not care as much.

soon it is just school photographs,

forced smiles, small,

tired eyes, wet and red,

wilting lilacs and dying leaves.

i close the photo album i am holding,

wondering why it was you.

knowing i could never have stopped it.

knowing i could never save you.

you were beautiful when you were young,

but caterpillars get hungry,

and people spray weed killer

on buds they don’t want. 


	8. pining for a love that happened in another lifetime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ouma, the Super High School Level Supreme Leader, gets a strange sense of deja vu. (it's a poem don't get excited)

do i know you?

i've seen your face before.

on the back of a carton of milk,

or passing by in a crowd of people.

raven hair i've touched,

golden eyes i've watched,

looked into for hours.

hands i've most certainly held,

tightly, loosely, like i'd let go,

like i'd die if i were to let go.

i know you, stranger.

from television, from online,

in a game, in a show,

we've crossed paths before,

you and i.

i just can't place where.

on the tip of my tongue,

but i just can't remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW YOU GUYS WANT ANOTHER STORY...IM SORRY... TAKE THIS POETRY INSTEAD....i have stuff in the works i promise it just takes me a while to get a full thing. gomenasorry.


	9. electric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ouma runs to the only place he knows is safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for: pretty serious child abuse, suicide idealization, slight violent fantasies

"Ouma...kun?"

It was with little to no notice. The fact Saihara was awake to receive him was mainly luck and a little based on the fact he knew Saihara stayed up late. Kokichi shuffled anxiously, having left in a rush. Pajamas and a jacket. He was even still in his slippers. He hadn't noticed until he was staring at them waiting for Saihara's door to open.

"What's all this about?" Saihara asked, opening the door a little more. Kokichi stared at the space between him and the doorframe, finding himself lost.

He was counting the flecks of dust, he was looking at nothing. He was nothing and nowhere, he most certainly wasn't here. He struggled, clearly, something deep and monstrous keeping a hold on him. Keeping him from walking in. He tried to say something, but nothing came out. Something came out.

He burst into tears. Of course he did. He didn't know what else to do, so like a stupid bitch, he started crying. His vision swam with tears, his body creaking and groaning under the weight. Weight of what? Everything? He was causing a scene. If Saihara's neighbors heard, they'd complain--

Saihara tugged him inside. The movement was so sudden, Kokichi stopped crying for a second. He was somersaulting into a panic attack, and he would've just gotten worse and worse if it wasn't Saihara he had run to.

Saihara was warm.

That was the first thing he noticed, being pulled into his arms. Saihara was warm, warm and soft. His sweater was soft. He felt a wave of relief, Saihara holding him close and tight. Tears came anew, pouring out of him, choking on sobs, quiet, quiet. Kokichi was so  _ good  _ at being quiet, and he hated it.

They wound up on his couch in a series of events he didn't remember. Kokichi leaned against his chest, sobbing and dripping snot everywhere. He cried and cried, and cried and cried.

Saihara pet his hair. Kokichi could register that he liked that, but otherwise, he was somewhere else. Only for a bit longer. Just a little more weakness. It'll be over soon.

Eventually, he ran out of tears. He pulled back, wishing he would've just passed out in his arms and been done with it, knowing that he had to provide an explanation. Rather, that his conscience was holding him at gunpoint to.

"Ouma-kun…" Saihara was still playing with his hair. Now his cheeks were burning, but were still probably red and swollen. Probably couldn't be noticed.

"I...I'm really…" He took a breath. "I don't mean to...have just dropped in unannounced like this, I'm really…"

"It's fine, Ouma-kun." Saihara's hands were clammy. Kokichi didn't mind. "It's no problem."

"...My mom, she…"

He didn't know how to put it in words.

His mother had started an argument over nothing. She was making an issue out of the tone of voice he spoke to her in, and no matter what he did, she wasn't happy with it. She said a real man would've stood up to her. She was honestly worried about him, he was such a useless, selfish brat. He'd never grow up.

Kokichi finally snapped back at her, saying he was done playing her stupid "come on, start a fight with me" games. She grabbed him by his hair and hit him, and hit him and hit him.

She shattered her cup on the floor. She told him if he was so unhappy here, he should just leave.

She said he was the worst thing that ever happened to her.

So he left.

How do you relay that? How do you tell someone that the person who's supposed to care about you most in the world hates you? How do you share something that deeply shameful? That your own mother's disgusted that she brought you into the world?

Saihara's thumb brushed some of Kokichi's bangs out of his face. For a moment, Kokichi felt that the air was static, little shocks across his brow. Tripping wires in his brain, in his heart, plugs unplugging and electricity crackling inside him. He was lost again, deep in those golden eyes, gold like a full moon. He could see everything in them, his own pathetic face, the couch, skies and oceans and something beautiful.

He struggled again to balance these feelings. Hopelessness. Love. Maybe he never could.

He shut his eyes and waited.

It took a moment, but Saihara understood. The two were starting to understand each other better than anyone else. Hot breath tickling his nose, two lips on his own. He quivered, wondering if this could break him. He'd like to be broken by something like this. Something gentle.

"I wish I could kill her," Saihara said, and Kokichi shifted, leaning forward, hiding his face in Saihara's shoulder.

"I don't want you to go to jail for my mom." Kokichi uttered bitterly. "Nobody deserves to...to suffer for…" Shook his head. "T-That sounds horrible, doesn't it?"

"I love you."

Kokichi shook his head. "That's not…" He was embarrassed again. "I-I love you too, Saihara-kun."

Even if Kokichi was pathetic, it was okay.

Even if he was lying. Even if this was all a farce, and he acted so weak so people would protect him. Even if he was telling the truth, and he was objectively a weak, worthless person who no mother could love. If he was using Saihara to make himself feel less empty, if he was truly and madly in love with him, if everything they did was just to pass the time, if everything they did would stay with him forever…

It was okay.

Because Saihara was keeping him afloat. He couldn't do it himself, so Saihara gave him reason.

Kokichi couldn't live for himself. What idiot would? He had no future, no dreams or goals, nothing to look forward to. He didn't have a single thing going for him, and there was no way he'd live past thirty.

But when his phone vibrated, his heart skipped a beat. When Saihara rambled about his TV shows, Kokichi truly smiled. Even if he couldn't buy the clothes he wanted, even if their times together were always cut short. He actually felt...normal. Just for a little bit. Just for a second, he felt like a normal teenager.

He didn't want to take college entrance exams. He didn't want to be in school for at minimum another four years. He didn't want his parents breathing down his neck, hitting him and each other and making him keep up the housework because mommy had run away for the week and daddy didn't come home from work until ten. All he was to them was a weapon to beat each other with.

How was he supposed to want to live? How was he supposed to look forward to this tedious, stressful future his parents had doomed him to? Where was he supposed to turn to other than this?

Nobody touched him like this before, so lightly, so tenderly. A jolt, a spark, sensations flooding him, circuitry frying. He wanted love. He wanted to be loved. He wanted to die here, die in arms this warm, bleed in the grip of Shuuichi Saihara until there was nothing left to bleed out.

"Can we stay like this," Kokichi's face tensed around the space between his eyebrows. "F-For just a bit longer…?"

Saihara hummed in assent, rubbing his back. This happiness never lasted long. They'd tear it away from him, just like they always did. But for now, it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> need to stop cracking jokes in the tags/summaries/notes. it looks like i don't take my work seriously. i just get nervous when somethings important to me so i say something funny in hopes i wont be upset when someone inevitably laughs at something i thought was profound/deep.  
> buuuut anyways, here's another story finally! hope it wasn't too repetitive in regards to themes i've already addressed a hundred times.


	10. a letter to burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shuuichi Saihara writes a letter to someone he left behind. (post-game pov)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for:  
> internalized homophobia, mentioned child abuse, suicide idealization, kinda gross sex stuff, lots of talk about death in a not so palatable way, bad brain

these days, i wonder if the things we felt back then were real.

it's been so hectic lately. i almost forgot to pay my respects last night. i should be happy my life has improved so much, that there's so many tv appearances scheduled. we thought we would find our own reality, but we just wound back up in the cycle. isn't that funny?

the interviews are fine. they talk about the game, our thoughts on our characters. they've asked about our love lives once, but nobody asks about us. i think that sort of thing is taboo, right?

even with so much to do, the days are all the same. every morning i wake up, i get my toothbrush. i brush my teeth and i realize i have to wash my face, or i'll be yelled at. some mornings i shower, sometimes it's at night. i never used to shower this often. i get dressed. eat breakfast. head to rehab— i'm almost done, you know. they said the memory recovery process has gone very smoothly. if i have work that day, i go get myself made up and prepare to smile on camera. there was a time i would've been thrilled with this outcome, but. i think it's more a curse than a blessing.

maybe there was a me once that would've been okay with surviving, but not without you.

when i get back at night, i've already gone through two packs of cigarettes. i stay up most of the night drinking, and pass out at the coffee table. sometimes i throw up all over myself and just lie with it. sometimes i jerk off until i can't think anymore, pretending it's you touching me. other nights i take a handful of ambien and wait until the calm fades into sleep.

i still think about how you died. how big of a mess it was. bits of you all over the place. i bet your blood is still in the soles of my shoes.

they say it's normal to be upset. that the grief is customary. yamamoto-san from season 51 says the first month back is the hardest. i think she's right. 

harukawa-san and yumeno-san come over every now and then. we just sit in silence, crying. it's a sorry sight! i'm sure we look properly pathetic. we don't talk about what happened. we can't. but we'll cry, because that doesn't require much interaction.

they say we're going to be fine.

i think a lot about causing a scandal. that'll break up the monotony. get caught sucking off an old man, have team danganronpa trip over themselves trying to cover it up. if i can't have anything else, i can at least go down in danganronpa history as a depraved pervert, right?

they say men shouldn't love other men. that it's something to be ashamed of, to grow out of or keep secret. they act that way about momota-kun and i, too. it was all for fanservice, not real feelings. that it's just to grab the audience. that what i feel, who i am, that it's nothing.

were we in love? can a person like me love? i was so happy someone understood me. i was so caught up in my own feelings i didn't know yours. sometimes i think you hated me. sometimes i think you were just putting up with me. sometimes i think you were lying, even though you didn't lie like you did in the game back then.

other times, i remember how nice your smile was. i remember how warm you were, how your hands always felt warm. how it felt when you rested your head against my shoulder, or when you let me hold you in my arms. they tried to make you cold, but you were warmer than that. warmer than a heartless liar who no one could love. but i guess dead is pretty cold, too, isn’t it?

sometimes i can't look at them. harukawa-san and yumeno-san, i mean. sometimes it's too much to reconcile that we were there together. that they witnessed all that death, too. that they felt it all happen, and lost people, too.

sometimes i hate them. sometimes i wish they were dead. i always wish i was dead, but sometimes i wish we were all dead. sometimes i wish the season finished with a big, disgusting pool of blood, and all our bodies mangled and tied together in a big chain. sometimes i wish i had killed all of them for hating you. whenever i think about how we all treated you, i get nauseous.

sometimes i think about slitting my throat and being done with it. how long would it take before they notice i’m gone? imagine, my stupid, ugly body, stinking and rotting in my fancy apartment. die in the most pathetic, disgusting way, just so they have to struggle with cleaning me up.

sometimes i even think about killing those two, too.

i didn't join this game to live. i didn't want the money. i didn't want the fame, either. i didn't want anything more than to make a beautiful mystery and choke you dead and then get executed, right on television! i wanted everyone to see me die. wouldn't that have been exciting? wouldn't that have stunned the audience, left them with something horrible they'd never forget? disappointed my parents? made their neighbors look down on them for having such a horrible son?

how else could i ever express how much i loved you than dying with you?

it's the same every day. the same heavy dread, the same feeling like i've betrayed you by living. harukawa-san said if i die, she'll never forgive me. we promised we'd live for everyone else, but i know you would've wanted me to die.

i want to believe in  _ our  _ promise. i want to believe in our love. i want to believe, even if it's a lie, too. i'll go chasing after a lie if i have to. i'll die for a lie, too. i'll die if it means i'll go to you.

is it happier where you are? are you safe? is there really anything after this?

are you in paradise? are you in hell? are you a gnarled tree, pecked on by harpies?

are you nowhere?

are you gone?

am i talking to no one?

i'm sorry i failed. i'm sorry i didn't die with you. i'm sorry i forgot, and i'm sorry i became someone who would say horrible, cruel things to you. i'm sorry i felt relieved when it turned out you were under that press. i'm so sorry.

i'm sorry i couldn’t love you forever. i’m sorry all these sentiments mean nothing. i’m sorry it’s all useless, and it doesn’t matter anymore. i’m sorry i can’t do anything to fix things. i’m sorry.

i won’t feel better if i live or die. i just wanted you. i know that now.

i just wanted to be happy with you, but that’s too much for me to allow myself.

i love you, kokichi.

even now i do.

i always, always will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of my first big fics i ever wrote was on tumblr, an open letter mondo wrote to ishimaru after they broke up in a nondespair au. here i am writing a first person letter again about love lost...  
> i like writing post-game and i need to write more...i thought it could go here though since it follows the ideas of the rest of this. i have many opinions about post-game saihara. i also have opinions abt maki and yumeno but thats....for another fic. that i actually have started! boy do i need to get on top of my WIPs.


	11. leave me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short poem.

come pick up your old CDs,

dust crusted and scratched.

they don't play the way they did before.

delete your pictures from my phone,

of our two smiling faces.

i can't look at us anymore.

tell me you hate me,

move on to someone new.

destroy the altars,

clean up the ashes.

breathe again,

make your heart beat.

gather your bones

until you are whole again.

leave me, but live,

and i will love no longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if it wasn't clear, its saihara pov following the game's events. yes, i'm still updating this!!!


	12. poems for the disillusioned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two poems about viewing a horrible love without rose colored glasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is ouma pov. refs to violent imagery and suicide

_use me_

 

use me,

if only to bolster your ego.

bite through my skin,

tear me like wet paper.

 

use me,

if only to pass the time.

bathe me in lust,

affections and empty promises.

 

use me,

if only to stay alive.

take out your anger and pain,

catharsis in our love.

 

use me,

if only to sate my hunger.

i’ve starved my whole life

to be useful to someone. 

 

-

_to make it beautiful and ugly_

 

you, glittering moon

lunatic and perverse outcast,

hang above me in the clouds

like a corpse from a noose.

you, fallen angel

who blistered and boiled,

chained in a burning lake

until something inside you broke.

you, my one and only

my sweetest, dearest,

most terrifying mistake,

make me pay for my naivety.

you were all i ever wanted,

but all i’ve wanted my entire life

was to die by a hand

that wasn’t my own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still updating this!! haw haw!!!


End file.
